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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033308">No Adjustment Necessary</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirradin/pseuds/Mirradin'>Mirradin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Biting, Blood and Injury, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F, Fighting, Horns Used As Weapons, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Punching, Vaginal Sex, broken glass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:48:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033308</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirradin/pseuds/Mirradin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vriska is fixing things on the meteor. Next on the list: Rose's drinking problems, best solved with a distracting kismessitude.</p><p>Rose is so very tired of being something to be fixed.</p><p>Things get violent.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rose Lalonde/Vriska Serket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Drone Season 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No Adjustment Necessary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/misgivings/gifts">misgivings</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ve read through Kanaya’s book on quadrants three times already. Each time the language comes easier to you, the backwards lettering of the Alternian alphabet appearing more natural to your eye, and the nuances of the phrasing reveal themselves with greater clarity. You’ve found a much finer appreciation for the subtleties of troll romance on your third examination.</p><p>Still, a fourth attempt might be beneficial. You’re sure there’s greater understanding to unlock. It’s easier than wandering the meteor, thinking about things you can no longer change.</p><p>The silence isn’t helpful. Even in an alien language, you’ve read this book three times, and it’s too easy for your mind to wander. Dave has his turntables set up just a couple of rooms away from the dusty study you’ve holed up in, and when he’s practicing the sound travels well enough for you to focus on when you can’t read any more. But today Dave is working on Can Town, so you must soldier on by yourself.</p><p>If things carry on like this you might need to ask Karkat for one of his romance novels and try applying theory to art, just so that you won’t be so damned <em>bored.</em></p><p>“Heeeey, Lalooooooonde!”</p><p>Ah. <em>Just </em>what you needed.</p><p>Vriska’s voice has a mosquito-like ability to get under your skin, which is why your shoulders come up under your ears and your fingers tighten on the book so hard that the page with the stylised spade seems about to tear. That won’t do at all. You straighten your back like you’re preparing for another engagement with your mother, using muscle memory that isn’t used to being deployed for this specific situation. With the same poise, you flip the book shut and put it down. You take the time to line it up neatly with the edges of the desk, because Vriska hates waiting to get people’s attention.</p><p>“Vriska.” You don’t make any effort to keep the annoyance out of your voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>Vriska leans against the doorframe, swinging her arm. “I went through your respite block,” she says casually.</p><p>It shouldn’t be a shock. Vriska’s respect for personal property is even lower than her respect for personal autonomy. You shouldn’t be surprised, but your fists still clench at her sheer <em>entitlement</em>.</p><p>“Disappointed?” you ask coolly. “For a better experience you might have asked for a guided tour.”</p><p>“Yeah, but then you would have hidden <em>this</em>.” A roll of Vriska’s shoulder brings her upright, to reveal the alchemised bottle of wine dangling nonchalantly from one hand. She holds it up in front of you like she’s brandishing a trophy – perhaps a severed head – and her lip curls. “<em>Seriously</em>, Lalonde?”</p><p>For a moment you can’t breathe from the fury.</p><p>
  <em>How dare she?</em>
</p><p>“What I keep in my room,” you say, very precisely, “is none of your concern.”</p><p>Vriska snorts and waves the bottle. (Sometimes you wonder if your mother felt like you do all the time and that’s why -) “It is when it’s this! What’s <em>wrong</em> with you? It’s like all you want to do is roll around being <em>weak</em>!”</p><p>You shove your chair back and snatch at the bottle. “What I drink,” you snarl, yanking at the slippery glass, “is <em>none of your business</em>.”</p><p>(You have a whole host of thoughts tangled up with alcohol and your mother, every one of them breathtakingly clichéd, and Vriska has the right to an opinion on precisely <em>none</em> of them.)</p><p>You’re right up in Vriska’s face as you wrestle over the bottle, glaring into her eyes with the blue just starting to filter through around the pupils, and there’s no way in the world you could miss it when Vriska grins.</p><p>You know that grin.</p><p>It’s Vriska’s fixing-things grin, her <em>I’m the most important person in the timeline</em> grin, her <em>I’m telling you what to do and who to do it with and when you can do it because I’m the only person who can get this right </em>grin, her <em>I don’t care what you think I’m still fixing everything </em>grin, and you are <em>so FUCKING tired </em>of being something to be <strong><em>fixed</em></strong>.</p><p>You let go of the bottle and punch her in the face.</p><p>Vriska staggers back. You dart forward and punch her again, skinning your knuckles on her teeth with a blow that snaps her head back and makes something <em>crunch </em>at the impact point. You don’t know if it’s your hand or her teeth and you don’t even care; the pain is irrelevant beside the need to hurt her until she stops fucking <em>looking</em> at you like that. Your other hand snaps up towards her jaw, but Vriska twists out of the way, into the open doorway, and you punch the wall instead.</p><p>Pain is irrelevant; speed is everything. You go for her again, but Vriska grew up on Alternia and she has her feet under her now, and as you lunge she swings the bottle up into your side, hard. You hit the doorframe, shoulder first.</p><p>“Took you long enough,” Vriska pants. Her voice comes out congested from a broken nose. You have half a second as you catch your balance to see that her mouth and chin are a smeared mess of cerulean blood, and to feel a surge of satisfaction, and then Vriska drops the bottle in favour of grabbing your arms and trying to slam you up against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>You remember the diagrams in the quadrant book and drive your knee up between her legs. Vriska bows over your shoulder with a grunt. You do it again, pettily – this time she makes an almost-soundless whine – and shove her back.</p><p>Something you’ve never had cause to know: Even doubled over with pain, Vriska knows how to grapple. She hooks her leg behind yours and you both go down together.</p><p>You land on top. You shove yourself up and punch her in the face again, right in her seven-pupilled eye. Something crunches when your fist hits her cheekbone and this time it’s definitely your hand; dull, deep pain throbs all the way to your elbow. You gasp for breath without meaning to.</p><p>Vriska ducks her chin and headbutts you.</p><p>The hook-tipped horn misses your neck, but the inner tip of the crescent lodges under your collarbone and <em>tears</em>.</p><p>You shout – you don’t know what, just a wordless cry of pain and rage, the much-debated primal scream. You claw at Vriska’s head, but she has momentum on her side; you get a clumsy grip on her horn but not enough to do any good, and you feel it pierce deeper as she rolls you both sideways. You land on your back and gasp as it grates horribly against the underside of your clavicle, before wrenching out of you.</p><p>You drag in a breath and blink the tears out of your eyes. Vriska’s horns come into focus first, the crescent stained with your blood and adorned with what you identify as a shred of skin. Some of that blood is splattered over Vriska’s face. Her lips are drawn back, showing a missing fang, and she looks at you as though she thinks for the first time that you might be a threat.</p><p>Even through the pain and the whirlwind rage, it’s gratifying.</p><p>“You’ve been holding out on me,” she says breathlessly.</p><p>You bare your own teeth in response. “If this is what it takes to earn your approval, I can see why nobody ever bothers.”</p><p>Vriska’s expression contorts into something halfway between a grin and a snarl, and she bites you in the mouth. You taste the peculiar herbal tang of cerulean blood, and then a burst of copper as her teeth puncture your lip.</p><p>Moving your right arm provokes a stab of pain and inspires Vriska to grab your wrist. Your left arm is perfectly fine, and Vriska releases your mouth with a growl when you dig your nails into her neck. It would be so very easy to push her away, but…you tangle your fist in her hair and hold her in place so that you can bite her back. Your teeth aren’t as suited as hers for drawing blood, but you catch her lip between your canines and grind them like you’re chewing a particularly tough piece of meat. More of that bitter herbal taste floods your mouth. Vriska makes a muffled sound and tries to bite you again, the broken edge of her tooth scratching impotently against your lips.</p><p>It's reckless; it’s madness; it’s a terrible idea on every possible count and you are a person who knows bad ideas on a celestial level. It’s messy and glorious and for the first time in two years you feel furiously, thrillingly alive. You let go of Vriska’s lip and snap for her tongue, and you don’t get a proper bite but you do catch the tip between your teeth and feel it yank free as Vriska twists to the limit of your grip on her hair, the strands cutting into your fingers like wire, and sinks her teeth into your chin.</p><p>This is reckless. This is madness. Vriska shoves a hand between your bodies and fumbles with her jeans, and you let go of her hair to pull your skirt up higher. Your legs are tangled together, which doesn’t help, and you certainly aren’t going to <em>ask </em>her to get off you to make it easier. You’ll just have to work with the inconvenience. You get the hem of your skirt up to the crease of your thigh, and then you have to let go and grab Vriska by the horn when she tries to move from your chin to your throat.</p><p>You force her head back until she has to squint down her nose to look you in the eye. Her left eye is already swelling up, but she still manages to give you a cocky smile. Your blood and hers have smeared to a muddy purple on her chin. You push up with all your strength and manage to tip her head back a little further. You wonder how much force it would take to break her horn off, and how deep it would go if you stabbed her with it afterwards. The point seems sharp enough. Good for killing imps, maybe, although trolls are hardier prey.</p><p>Dampness soaks the front of your skirt suddenly, and Vriska rocks her hips, grabbing a handful of fabric with the hand still lodged between your bodies and pulling it up. Something tickles your inner thigh, then wriggles down it, slick and boneless, like the touch of the Outer Gods.</p><p>You’ve examined the diagrams in Kanaya’s book enough to make an educated guess at what that is, although it’s harder to link the image to the reality by feel, with Vriska’s weight pinning you down. Size was hard to gauge from the drawings, but – another wriggle, another coil squirming against the crease where your thigh meets your groin – from the feel of things, this is going to be manageable. This will hopefully be manageable. Even if it isn’t, you would cheerfully swallow glass rather than let Vriska see you hesitate. You have her bruised and bloodied, finally, and you don’t intend to let her win now.</p><p>Vriska’s bulge is temporarily stymied by your underwear. The annoyance on her face is too much; you laugh.</p><p>“It’s not fucking funny,” Vriska snaps. Her eyes unfocus; her bulge stops its aimless tangling and starts trying to push the fabric aside.</p><p>“I beg to differ,” you reply. You keep your eyes on her face. Not yet. You have a knack for judging the right moment.</p><p>Vriska sneers, but doesn’t say anything; her eyes are distracted. Her bulge slithers beneath your underwear and gropes through your folds, across your clit. She runs colder than you, but not by much; it’s warm, but not hot. You clench down in instinctive, unreasonable need.</p><p>Penetration is…strange. Vriska’s bulge works into you a little at a time, eeling from side to side, bunching up before pushing deeper. It’s aimless, teasing. You can feel your pulse in your crotch. Your underwear is never going to be the same again, and not just because Vriska’s leaking like a faucet.</p><p>It must show in your face, because Vriska’s sneer changes to a smirk as she peers down at you, and her grip loosens on your wrist.</p><p>You move.</p><p>The stab wound under your collarbone throbs in protest, but you fling your right arm out and close your hand around the neck of the discarded wine bottle. Vriska punches you in the face, a tidy cross-hook that snaps your teeth together on your tongue and makes stars burst in your vision – and incidentally does nothing to diminish your arousal – but you keep hold of the bottle, and with a surge of adrenaline you smash it against the floor.</p><p>Then you ram the broken end into Vriska’s shoulder.</p><p>Vriska’s horn wrenches out of your hand. She claws at your face, drawing blazing lines of pain that barely skid past your eye. Her bulge is as far in you as it can get and lashing like an angry cat’s tail, and it’s not enough but you are so very close. You can still win this. You grab Vriska by the hair and pull her in for another biting kiss; she mauls your mouth but it’s worth it, it gives you the leverage to tip her over again, and you yank the bottle out of her shoulder before you roll but she still goes down on a mess of wine and broken glass.</p><p>You will savour the sound she makes for a long, long time.</p><p>Rolling you over yanks her bulge halfway out of you, of course, but you shove your hips down against hers and it crawls right back in. You grind down against her, urging yourself along. You’re close but it’s awkward, and you don’t know how close <em>she </em>is, how long it takes trolls to finish up. You need to –</p><p>A frantic movement and your body stutters unexpectedly over the edge. You cry out into Vriska’s mouth, and she bites your tongue. Her bulge is still lashing inside you with no rhythm at all, and that’s less satisfying than it could be, but the bloody wound your fingers encounter when they close on her shoulder is <em>very </em>satisfying. Vriska’s breath hitches when you dig your nails in, and then she’s spasming under you and your knees are wet with a slickness that isn’t wine.</p><p>You climb off her after a minute. Your knees resolutely do not shake. You put one hand to the doorframe to assist you in standing steadily, and you look down at Vriska, the ruler of the meteor and the architect of the new timeline, lying exhausted in a pool of blood and wine. She looks up at you and you wonder if it feels strange to her, to have lost in the timeline she was brought back to win.</p><p>You could almost regret how fast injuries heal, when you’re God Tier.</p><p>Then she grins up at you – a tired, cocky grin, not her fixing-things grin – and your free hand curls into a fist. Astonishingly, having punched her in the face several times hasn’t made the proposition any less attractive.</p><p>“Not bad,” she says. Slurs, rather. Her mouth is almost as much of a mess as yours is. “We should do this again some time.”</p><p>To your surprise, you find that you agree.</p>
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